Sherlock the Sitter
by LogicalBookThief
Summary: On the brink of solving an ugrent case, Lestrade is called to duty and forced to leave his three children in the hands of the only available caretaker — an injured, therefore extremely bored, Sherlock Holmes. Everything would go fine. Probably.
1. Sherlock the Sitter

**Disclaimer:** Better do this now, so I don't forget: I do not own Sherlock. Heartbreaking, I know.

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><p>Lestrade was so close to taking down these thugs he could taste it. Nasty lot they were, what with drug trafficking and disregard for human lives. Nothing would please him more than to see the creeps locked behind bars for good.<p>

So in times like these, when getting a conviction was sweeter than any amount of pride he may have to lose, Lestrade thanked his lucky stars for Sherlock Holmes.

Unfortunately, in his usual zeal to solve the case, Sherlock and took a rather nasty fall off a ledge. Luckily, he emerged with only a broken ankle to show for it, and perhaps a sore eardrum for all Dr. Watson had to say on the matter.

Now they stood in the Baker Street flat, an irate Sherlock fuming over an order of bedrest, and an alert army doctor awaiting orders. As was the inspector.

Just then, Lestrade's phone rang. Thinking it was an important message from one of his deputies, he answered with haste, only to release a string of curses at the text portrayed.

_Greg, bringing the kids over in half an hour. Where should they be dropped off?_

_Shat._ Lestrade berated himself. _How could I have forgotten?_ God, what horrible timing! There was no way to cancel on his kids, nor would he be able to simply walk away at such a crucial point in the case.

Funny how cancelling on his wife seemed more vicious and scary than dealing with armed drug dealers.

_Damn! I can't just put the case on pause, nor can I simply leave them unattended. If only I could find a replacement sitter somewhere..._

Just then, an ongoing conversation morphing into an argument between the doctor and the detective snapped Lestrade out of his mental dilemma.

"I'm coming with—"

"Oh, you most certainly are not," John cut off sharply, adopting a no-nonsense tone.

"I am a vital key to this investigation!" Sherlock protested.

"And you've done your job admirably. Now, just let us do the legwork."

"What the bloody hell am I supposed to do while you're gone?" the petulant detective grumbled, abundant with sarcasm.

A literal lightbulb seemed to appear above Lestrade's head.

_Could I...?_

_Don't be ridiculous!_ the more rational part of his brain exclaimed. _You want Sherlock soddin' Holmes to babysit?_

_Not particularly,_ admitted inner Lestrade. _But I don't exactly have any other options, and I'm sure he is competent enough..._

More than that, time was ticking, and the more wasted seconds they spent lingering here the less time they had to apprehend the suspects, so—

"May I make a suggestion, gents?" Lestrade piped up, causing both heads in the room to whirl towards him.

* * *

><p>"I cannot believe you just did that," John said as soon as they were outside.<p>

They had rushed off down the stairs in a hurry, as if expecting the invalid inside to come storming after them.

"He agreed," Lestrade shrugged.

"He did not," John negated, torn between amusement and indignation on his friend's behalf. "You asked him, he said maybe, then tried to ask more but you were already typing directions out on your phone and dragging me out the door behind you."

"Well, I was out of options. Couldn't just wait around for him to decline, could I? This way he's stuck with it and we can still get a conviction before it's too late," Lestrade reasoned.

John likely conceded to all of the above, however, could not ignore the probable outcome of the whole charade.

"He'll kill you for this," the doctor blurted. Not so much dry as brutally honest.

Lestrade tried to play it off positively. "Yes, yes. But everyone says that, no one ever actually follows through—"

"High-functioning sociopath," John reminded simply. The officer's optimism all but deflated.

"Right. I'm screwed." Lestrade sighed. "Oh, well. At least it won't be my wife who does it."

* * *

><p>Later on, three children were waved off by their mother and dropped off on the curb, with the address of their destination scrawled onto a piece of paper. Henry Lestrade, the middle child and only male, looked around.<p>

_221B Baker Street? _Well, this was it. Nothing extravagant, but that was fine, he had a simple taste in sitters. No desire for Marry Poppins or any other musical manifestations.

"Uh, oh," Henry paled, glancing to his left.

"Uh oh, what?" Leslie Lestrade, his older sister, questioned. She was carrying Tessa, their baby sister, who added an intelligible coo to the conversation.

"Morgan, Weber, and Hail," he said in a rush under his breath. Insecurely, Henry pushed the glasses back up the bridge of his nose, which had gotten slick with sweat.

Drew Morgan, Ernest Weber, and Duke Hail were the meanest boys in his elementary class. They picked on weaklings, droves the teachers bonkers, and the ringleader Morgan had it in for poor, meek Henry.

As he approached, Morgan donned a vicious grin. "Oi, Lestrade, what are you doin' in our part of town?"

"I-I don't see your names on it," Henry stammered bravely. It was about the best he could manage.

"Brave words from a shaky mouth," Morgan scoffed, and the lackeys guffawed loudly.

"Lay off, twits," Leslie warned nastily. However, a girl could be only so intimidating whilst holding a squirming baby sister in her arm's.

Weber blushed slightly, finding the older girl sort of pretty in a way he didn't get, but Hail shoved him hard to bring his head out of the clouds. Morgan, knowing she was no threat with Tessa along, was unruffled.

"Aww, does big sis havta fight your battles for you, wittle Lestrade?" Henry's face burnt tomato red. Sure, he was mad, but what was he to do? These boys were all bigger, bulkier; and he was only a four-eyed nerd!

"What the devil's going on out here?" All of the kids startled at the adult-spoken words.

Leaning against the door-frame was a tall man, with an obvious elegance to him, despite the wrapping on his apparently injured ankle. He had intense blue eyes, which were currently observing the scene playing out before him with an intelligence Henry could not even begin to grasp.

"Well?" he persisted, not even bothering to ask whom they all were.

Leslie said, "If this is your property, sir, tell these punks to get lost for us, will you?"

The stranger eyed the lot of them up and down, disinterested. He sent the bullies a bland, "Will you?"

For a moment, two of the trio looked slightly worried, but their ringleader was not disturbed in the slightest.

Morgan sized Sherlock up with a wicked stare. "Oi, look! Henry's got himself a gangly friend!" he announced.

Feeling cocky now, and still in control, the other two joined in.

"And he's a gimp!" Weber taunted obnoxiously.

But Sherlock ignored his comment altogether. In fact, the only person his calculating gaze focused on was Morgan. "Impaired as may leg is currently, bone will heal. What will _not_ is your parents' marriage."

As though his behavior were but a switch, Morgan's demeanor abruptly changed. His confidence contorted into something raw, something more rude and angry than before—yet somehow, also vulnerable.

"Ruddy liar," he growled.

Regardless, Sherlock continued: "So really, bullying others will make you feel no more superior, and is plain brutish if you ask me. Go ahead and ask your mailman, he should be keen on giving advice, seeing as he may soon be your stepfather."

Morgan's face was burning with fury and humiliation. "We haven't even got a mailman! Our post goes to a P.O. Box!"

"Someone should inform your father of this fact, then," Sherlock suggested. "Maybe then he'll wise up and leave your mother before she gets alimony and child support out of his unobservant paycheck."

"Ali-what?" said Hail stupidly.

Without a word, a punch, or even a fit, Morgan turned away in a huff; frazzled and defeated. At a loss, Weber and Hail hurried after him. Henry stood there, too amazed to speak. Which lasted for all of two minutes.

"That was—amazing!" he gushed. "Geezus, you majorly saved me, mate! You just came in and talked and they—and you—and even Morgan was like—bloody brilliant, you were!"

"Yes, well, I have never been a man to condone bullying," said Sherlock, staring pointedly at him. "Nor is your father. Is he not aware of these future delinquents hounding you?"

Before Henry could stutter out a response, his sister replied for him. "He's too chicken to say." Leslie continued, "And they don't physically fight, not really, though Morgan did give Baron a bloody nose last year. Mostly Henry just nearly pisses himself at the sight of them."

"Oi, language! I'll tell Mum!" Leslie promptly ignored her younger brother.

"How did you figure it out, though? Not even I considered his mum having an affair," she went on.

"Easy. His clothes were crumpled and stained, a sign of inattentiveness. Why would his mother be distracted? Perhaps work. Unless you take into account that she's a stay at home mum. Obvious. So what's diverting her attention? You also have his acting out; that points to home trouble and arguing parents. Issues in matrimony, neglect, and rotten behavior—add them all up, and you have an affair."

"What about the mailman?" she pursued.

"That was mostly guesswork. My first instinct was milkman, but you never do see them quite often anymore, do you? Hmm." He tilted his head, eyes narrowed in thought. "Which one were you again?"

"Leslie Lestrade," she answered. "This is Henry and Tessa. Are you our sitter, then?"

"Apparently. My name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Lovely," said Leslie. "Let's go in then, shall we? Tessa seems 'bout ready for a change."

Sherlock's look went sour as the children bustled past him into the flat and the smell of the youngest's undoubtedly full diaper wafted up to his nostrils.

"Lovely," he repeated tartly.

* * *

><p>Words failed to describe the scene John and Lestrade arrived to back at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson led them up, assuring Lestrade that she had fed the children a proper meal, and how cute all his little angels were.<p>

John didn't know what he expected: fires, spontaneous combustion, chemicals, edible poisons, body parts. Chaos, maybe, but certainly not _this._

Sherlock sitting perfectly normal, holding a baby (the proper way, mind you) on the couch, with two elder children chattering away on the floor beside his legs, fiddling with an ancient-looking abacus.

"Oh, you're back," he said casually, causing the the boy and girl to turn towards the intruders. "Dad!" they both cried, and ran up to meet their father.

"Hey, kids," the inspector greeted, giving them each a kiss on the head. "You were well-behaved, yes?"

John glanced towards the adult still cradling the drooling infant. "How about you?" he asked sternly.

The detective was unamused.

"Thanks for keeping an eye on them," Lestrade said quietly to Sherlock, who blinked at the gratitude.

"No problem," he said back, without a trace of sarcasm in his tone.

"Dad, did you catch the bad guy?" asked Henry.

"Yes, did you apprehend the suspects I led you to?" Sherlock demanded.

Lestrade straightened triumphantly. "They'll be spend tonight and many more behind bars. Right, Dr. Watson?"

"Certainly," John affirmed, smiling. "So...how did everything go here?"

"Great!" Leslie exclaimed, much to her father's surprise. She was rarely so spirited. "Sherlock taught us all sorts of scientific stuff—and we watched crime shows on the telly, and he showed us everything that was wrong, so we could do it better in our heads!"

"Yeah, Dad, Sherlock rocks at Cluedo," Henry added, "I never knew the vicitim could be the perpetrator!"

John glared. "They _can't—"_

Before he could go off on a rant, Mrs. Hudson shushed them all. That's when the rest heard it, too. Tessa was stuttering aloud, her mouth working furiously, trying to form words.

"De, de, de—"

"Tessa, luv, are you trying to speak?" asked Lestrade excitedly. "Go on, then."

"De-deduck-sion?" Tessa squeaked, ending with an adorable laugh of accomplishment.

Dead silence fell over the room.

"Oh, my," mouthed Mrs. Hudson, glancing between the happy toddler and her baffled father.

"She said deduction," John deadpanned. "Deduction, is what she said, isn't it?"

"Yep!" chirped Henry. "Brilliant, huh?"

Lestrade retrieved his child from Sherlock's arms. "Thanks," he said blandly.

"At least it was a word," the detective defended. "Three syllables, no less. I'd be proud."

The corners of Lestrade's mouth quirked up. "Yeah, I am," he admitted. "Alright, time to get home, kids. Say goodbye to Sherlock and Dr. Watson."

John gave them all a cheery wave and Mrs. Hudson left with a pleasant goodbye. Leslie and Henry, however, went right up to Sherlock _sodding_ Holmes ad hugged him around the middle. For the first time since he'd known the detective, Sherlock was at a complete and utter loss. More surprising was his lack of revulsion to the hug.

What really topped it all off was little Tessa, who squirmed in her father's arms so bad he was forced to oblige and stick her close to Sherlock's face, where she gave him a sloppy baby kiss on the cheek.

"Bye!" the siblings called, as the Lestrade family departed down the stairs. Only when the front door finally shut did John gather enough of his bearings to speak.

"That was..." Once again, words failed to described the scene. "...possibly the most touching thing I've ever witnessed."

"Please, stop," Sherlock groaned long-sufferingly.

"No, really," John insisted. "God, of all times to misplace my camera, why now? When I so desperately need to memorialize the moment?"

"You do remember that I am more than capable of smothering you with a pillow in your sleep and hiding all evidence if you fail to desist this instance."

"But you won't," John pointed out unconcernedly. Sherlock debated it.

"You're right. I'd pin it on Anderson. That is besides the point." He sent John a withering look. "The threat remains."

"Okay, okay, I'll lay off," the doctor relented. In earnest, he did add, "Honestly, though, you actually seemed to do well with those kids. They certainly enjoyed your company, which is more than most will admit to." John being a blatant exception, of course. "Think you'll consider watching them again?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Please, John. I have much more adequate ways of occupying my time other than minding a group of children."

John failed to be impressed. "Uh huh. Which is?"

When he received no direct answer, it was no surprise, so he went forth and switched on the telly. Meanwhile, Sherlock had procured his phone from somewhere and was violently abusing the keypad in search of some answer. John knew he had found it went his flatmate let a small sound of victory and began dialing.

Feigning interest in the television, John tried to pretend he was not totally eavesdropped on whatever Sherlock was planning to do.

"Hello? Is this Mrs. Freida Morgan? Yes, my name is Donovan Anderson and I am calling to inform you about your son's recent behavior issues at school." The woman on the other line spoke. "Well, bullying, for one. Physical and mental. And may I add that, such marks on a permanent record do not bode well to prospective universities.

John merely stared. It was like watching the telly, only better.

Another load of words from the mother, much sharper than the last.

Sherlock stroked his chin in thought.

"My advice? Stop arguing with his father over your growing infidelity and spend more time with dealing with your son's disciplinary issues. Though it will cut into your time with the mailman, I'm sure your weekly regime of Deliver and Receive can wait."

Without waiting for the sputtering outcry from the opposite line, the detective hung up and cast the phone aside.

"Well, I sincerely doubt he will be giving Henry Lestrade any trouble again," Sherlock declared, supremely self-satisfied. He had obviously relished toying with the foolish woman over the phone.

And John couldn't help but crack a smile, because no matter how vehemently he might deny, Sherlock sounded almost like he really _cared._

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><p>Sherlock gives me such a 'bully victim' vibe that I imagine he would take no mercy on such brutes, especially if they were after poor nerds who were also Lestrade's children!<p>

If you guys want more, just request it. Reviews are appreciated!


	2. Elementary Education

A/N: Hello, all! Thank you so much for the lovely reviews! Hope this lives up to your expectations!

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><p>Grumbling to herself, Leslie Lestrade strutted across the supermarket towards the freezer aisle, stupendously annoyed. She <em>loathed<em> grocery shopping with Mum.

_Fetch the frozen sausages,_ _she says. Who the heck even eats pre-made sausage in our house?_

Henry, of course. _Little brothers,_ she inwardly snorted, _put on this earth solely to drive us older sibling bonkers!_

Chilled, Leslie quickly snatched the item from the frost-bitten shelf, and made as if to leave—until she just so happened to catch wind of a certain conversation...of a certain somebody she knew.

Ms. Patrice had been both Leslie and Henry's first grade instructor. She was a kind woman whom the oldest Lestrade recalled very fondly. So it puzzled her to see the woman immersed in such distress.

"Annette, your my sister! You can't find in your heart to help out?" she cried into her cellphone.

Leslie listened close, but could not make out the other woman's exact reply.

"Yes, I suppose skydiving with the Queen and her cousin is a difficult arrangement to quit on. Oh, well. Love you too, dear. Goodbye."

Ms. Patrice sighed, "Buggar. Where am I supposed to find a replacement sitter on such short notice?"

While the teacher seemed at a loss, Leslie was struck with an _outstanding_ solution, and decided to make her presence known.

"Hello, Ms. Patrice," she greeted aloud. The woman started and turned around, before donning a familiar smile.

"Oh, Leslie! Hello, dear," she said cheerily. "How are you?"

"Very well," Leslie answered politely.

"And your brother?"

"Fine, ma'am. I couldn't help overhearing your predicament...and I may have a solution."

That immediately caught the woman's attention. "Really? You know somebody?"

"Uh huh. He works with my dad—my brother, sister and I adore him as a sitter," Leslie gushed.

"Indeed?" said Ms. Patrice, hardly daring to believe it. "Who is this godsend you speak of?"

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He's fun, educational, and comes highly recommended." By her and her siblings at least, but such details seemed irrelevant at the moment.

Ms. Patrice frowned slightly. "But surely he has an occupation of some sort to attend to?"

"Of course," nodded Leslie. "It's very prestigious, actually. The best part is, though, he can usually do his job from home, so it works out great!"

"I see. How convenient! Are you certain he is available?"

Leslie considered this. "Not entirely. I could very easily check. I'll stop by his house and give him your message, if you like."

Ms. Patrice opened her mouth to reply, then closed it with a frown.

"No, that will never do. Very impersonal to send requests through messengers." She shook her head. "I'll have to do it properly; how about you take me to his home so I may ask him in person?"

"Okay!" agreed Leslie, the frozen breakfast item forgotten.

* * *

><p>It was not unusual for John and Lestrade to end up meeting each other at the door for whatever varied reasons. As it happened, John was just arriving home from a long shift at the hospital; Lestrade was stranded outside.<p>

"Called him a few times, but he never answered, even though I said we had a case," the inspector explained, whilst John opened the door with his specially made key.

"Sometimes, not even a serial killer can get his attention," the doctor said understandingly, knowing how caught up Sherlock could get in his experiments.

"Wonder what has him so preoccupied?" pondered Lestrade, unwittingly about to find out.

At first, John was unable to spot his flatmate. Not because he wasn't present, but probably due to the fact that his gaze was too busy taking into account the _six_ _or so unknown children_ in their flat.

Two were playing with some of Sherlock's chemistry things(hopefully nothing dangerous), two were arguing over the telly remote, one was furiously coloring a picture on a piece of parchment, and the last was lazily laying in the arm's of none other than the man in question.

"Good afternoon, John. Inspector," he greeted casually, nodding to them.

"Sherlock..." said John very slowly, "...why are there six kids running amok in our flat?"

Having also recovered, Lestrade's face grew stern. "Okay, I'll bite: How many of these children are hired help, how many of them are kidnapped, and how many unsuspecting lab rats?"

Sherlock scowled.

"As usual, Inspector, you have assumed wrongly," he drawled. "These are the spawn of my new clients."

_"Clients?" _As soon as the words left his mouth, John knew he was asking for trouble.

"Yes. Now observe," Sherlock intoned, and before either of them had a chance to blink, he used his fingers to emit a shrill whistle that put the former soldier's teeth on edge.

At once, all merriment in the room ceased and the children lined up in order of height. John could scarcely believe the efficiency—though despite the initial shock, it was rather impressive, the doctor admitted.

"Meet the troops: the twins, Rosanna and Roberta; Clarence Clancy, though I prefer calling him by the last name than the first; Barry, ripe head on his shoulders, that one; Annabeth, claiming something or another of being my future wife yada yada; oh, and Edgar! Arguably my favorite!"

"Why is that?" John asked, for lack of better speech.

"He doesn't speak." Sherlock grinned. Edgar in question simply blinked at the pair before sticking a small fist into his mouth. The detective looked positively pleased.

"Ah, his coordination is improving. I shall have him crawling in pentagonal motions within days."

"What sort of witchcraft is responsible for this phenomena?" Lestrade awed, only half-joking,

"Your daughter is to blame, actually. Apparently she told somebody about an excellent sitter she knew. The woman in question informed another who informed another—you get the gist of it, yes?

"At first, I was skeptical. Then I got to thinking—"

"God forbid it, that always means trouble," muttered Lestrade.

Sherlock ignored the remark, "—intriguing cases come so rarely anymore, and the drab junctures in between them can be incredibly dull. Children, as it turns out, are wonderful stimulants and keep me out of boredom's evil clutches quite nicely. Plus, I earn a rather fitting profit to boot."

Turning his back to them, John heard the man beside him snort.

"I should ante up Leslie's allowance," Lestrade remarked, "She managed to sell Sherlock and propel him into a babysitting business. Anyone capable of that deserves to be a full-fledged entrepreneur."

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><p>An entire week later, and still Sherlock remained steadfast on his decision to be a full-fledged sitter. John became so accustomed to the sight of children in the flat that he actually invested in a set of child-proof necessities.<p>

_"Yes,_ Sherlock, we need to have a lock on the toilet if you want to let Edgar do his drills about the house," he stressed, trying to make the other adult (oversized child) see reason.

All he got was an expression that, for all purposes, was pouty. So busy glaring, Sherlock failed to notice the squirming Edgar trapped in his arms; which left John with two toddlers fuming at him.

However, despite all logical odds, Sherlock adapted quite well to a life surrounded by children. Their eagerness, sponge-like brain capacity, attentiveness, and sterling hero-worship made them better companions than people his own age. After all, Sherlock only _tolerated_ most people—he genuinely enjoyed spending time with the kids.

But just because you teach a dog new tricks, doesn't mean he won't use the old. Even with the mostly successful child-rearing lessons John and Mrs. Hudson bestowed on the detective, old habits died hard.

The doctor learned this one day after receiving a text to meet his friend. Figuring it was a case, John caught a cab and went to the texted location, and was met with a rather livid police force. Which was nothing unusual, considering Sherlock's presence—what was out of the ordinary was the gaggle of children accompanying him.

_Oh, shat. He didn't._ Even as John hoped, he knew it was in vain.

"For pity sake Sherlock, why every time I leave for work, I am forced to return to utter madness?" he griped.

"We're on an educational field trip, if you don't mind," Sherlock responded dryly, lifting the tape for the children to pass under.

Lestrade was pinching the bridge of his nose as though nursing a severe headache. "Sherlock, what in God's name made you believe it was _okay_ to bring all these kids to a crime scene?"

"You did send for me," the detective reminded, trying to avert the blame.

"Yeah, I also said, '_If you weren't busy,'" _the Inspector argued.

"And I wasn't."

"You're babysitting, Sherlock."

"Yes, and then you called with a new case. Do keep up."

"So you brought them to a crime scene?" Anderson deadpanned, a nasty twitch developing in his left eye.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, Anderson, I was going to leave five underage minors and a toddler unattended without any adult supervision for an unknown amount of hours. Certainly, I could see yourself with the same mindset, but not an intellectual such as I," he finished condescendingly.

Sally, meanwhile, shook her head in disgust. "This is beyond irresponsible, even for you, Freak— OW!"

Everyone in the vicinity turned to see what had caused her high-pitched shriek. Clancy, the sneaky scoundrel, had leant over and bit her! Literally plunged his sharp, sugar-coated teeth into her arm!

"Ouch! He _bit_ me!" she yelled in shock.

"I saw," Lestrade acknowledged, also stupefied. John glanced over to Sherlock and found him blinking in awed amusement.

The child in question was glaring at her in fury. "Hey! Don't call Mr. Sherlock a freak! That's mean!"

_She's probably never been called out on this before,_ thought John, with a mite of inner guilt. It's sad when an eight-year-old proved to be more moral than a group of fully grown adults.

Glaring, Sally tried to argue back, "But I—" and failed miserably.

"No buts!" the boy scathed. "My mummy says there is no 'scuse for calling someone mean names! You Meanie McMeanie Pants!"

John was at an total loss. Lestrade, equally bereft beside him, had no idea that he too was about to be swept up into the maelstrom of lunacy.

"And YOU!" Clancy continued, now pointing his finger at the unsuspecting inspector."Meanies that say mean names are bullies, and meanies who let bullies be mean are WORSE! Get off your butt and start doing your job!"

Lestrade blinked at the boy, regaining enough sense to ask, "And what exactly do you suggest?"

Clancy paused thoughfully. "A time out, at least," he conceded at last.

Debating it, Lestrade finally relented with a quiet,

"Dononvan...go take a time out."

Sally was flabbergasted. "Sir, you can't be serious!"

"Donovan," Lestrage added warningly. With an irritated huff, she stormed off somewhere near the edge of the crime scene.

With pleasant hum, Sherlock watched her go. "Hmph. That was entertaining for myself, yet even more humiliating for her. Well done, Clancy."

The bespectacled boy nodded in approval at Donovan's reprimand, then beamed at his sitter. "Thank you, sir."

"Now, children, stand back and observe. John, would you be so kind as coming here to assist me? Anderson, you know the drill. Turn around so your face does not disrupt my deduction process."

"Why, me? Why always _me?"_ Anderson groaned.

Sherlock was distinctly flippant in his response, "Oh, I don't know, it's just something about your face, it's simply so—"

"Insulting," scoffed Annabeth.

"Dim?" Rosanna offered, at the same time Roberta piped, "Shallow?"

"Inadequate?" chirped Clancy, happy to be helpful.

"A disgrace to the intellectual field?" Barry quipped.

Edgar cooed.

"—well there you have it," Sherlock proclaimed to the shell-shocked Anderson. "Took the words right out of my mouth."

"He's corrupted them," Sally whispered tremulously to her superior, having reappeared sometime during the exchange. Lestrade simply smirked, knowing she was right, but not excluded from the whole-hearted humor in the situation.

Meanwhile, John flipped over the body so Sherlock could get a good look without disturbing the baby cradled in his arms. After a brief examination, he turned to address his pupils.

"Now, children, what do you see?"

Concentrating deeply, Barry leaned down into a crouch. "Has a bit of something hanging off her lower lip. Probably ingested a lethal toxin by mistake."

"Mistake?" asked Clancy.

"Of course," said Roberta, before Rosanna continued, "If somebody had been plotting her murder, why do it in such a public place? It was most likely accidental."

"Right, but we already checked for toxins," Anderson interrupted, looking unconvinced. Which was a bit unfair, when John found their guesswork brilliant for kids so young.

"Idiot!" Annabeth sneered. "What's not toxic for other people may be for her if there was an underlying allergy no one was aware of."

John, with all his inner strength, couldn't hold back a snigger. Luckily, his tiny lack of will power was overshadowed by Sherlock, whom was smirking unashamedly.

"Anderson, you've just been outwitted by a nine-year-old who has performed your job more proficiently and in less amount of time. Your IQ just plummeted to an all-time low."

_Aaand there goes the twitch again,_ the doctor mentally noted.

"Well done, Annabeth," he praised. Annabeth's eyes lit up in pure delight. She squealed and launched herself at the esteemed detective and promptly attached herself to his leg.

Purposely unaware of this gesture, Sherlock waved all the kids towards the tape. "Come, children. Mrs. Hudson requires we be back by noon so you can sample her specially prepared lunch."

Watching them leave, John Watson glanced back at the body, the police force, then towards the kids again. With an 'it can't be helped' shrug, he began to follow.

"Where are you off to?" demanded Sally.

"Didn't you hear?" called John, over his shoulder. "Mrs. Hudson's making lunch. Do keep up."

* * *

><p>That's what Anderson gets for being such a wanker in the show. (:<p>

More is on it's way, and I plan to go more in-depth with the individual kiddies later. And for the fans I made in chapter one, have no fear; the Lestrade trio will make future appearances, too.

Next time: Mycroft makes a surprise visit. The children are delighted. Sherlock is not.


	3. Meeting Mycroft

Sorry, sorry, sorry about the long-wait! This chapter had me thoroughly lost on how to go about writing it. Hopefully, the final draft turned out okay. Next one will be better(:

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><p>Doctor John Watson led an odd lifestyle. Mostly due to that fact that his living arrangements included the world's only consulting detective, who was inept at handling social situations in an ordinary manner and had some slight sociopathic tendencies. Other than that though, he had little reason to complain.<p>

But _seriously?_ Walking into the flat after a trip to the grocery store and almost dropping the bag because, wow, there was definitely not a large fortress of pillows and blankets erected in the living space when he left, was bordering on sheer ridiculousness.

Dumping the groceries in the kitchen, he stealthily headed to front of the fortress to investigate. After all, the situation was already too insane to assume the obvious anymore. Who knew what lay under these fluffy extremities?

"Er, hello?" he ventured.

"Password?" came a familiar drawl.

_"Sherlock?"_

"Hello, John. Did you bring back any milk?"

"Yes, I—" _Stop while you're ahead, Doctor Watson. You are a grown man. You will not converse with another (supposedly) grown man who is currently residing under a blanket fort._ "Not the point. Dare I ask why you are under there?"

"The children wanted to build a fort," was the simple, straightforward reply. "And I needed a place with an absence of light to conduct an experiment with glowstick goo. Perfectly non-toxic, I assure you."

"Welcome back, Dr. Watson!" Rosanna and Roberta shouted out from somewhere in the vicinity of the fort.

"Hi, girls. Is the baby in there, too?"

"Yes," replied Barry. "He's fine—Mr. Sherlock said we should make him a tiny enclosure so we'd be free to work on the passageways."

_Passageways? Geez, is it Buckingham Palace in there?_

As if things could not get any peculiar that day, the doorbell rang.

_Company. Wonderful._

"I'm going to go answer the door," he announced. "Like a normal person. When I come back, I expect to see everybody currently a resident of Fort Baker Street out in the open. Or else no sweets for a week, and for Professor Holmes, no experimentation."

He strutted over to the door in as casual a way as possible and proceeded to open it. Of course, it would be Sherlock's older, world-dominating brother.

"Oh. Hello, Mycroft," John greeted in surprise. Mycroft smiled back in his usual manner.

"Hello, Doctor. How does this day find you?"

"Bizzare," the doctor replied truthfully, to which Mycroft chuckled.

"One must expect nothing less when sharing a flat with my brother. Let's go see him, shall we?"

_Because I know he'll just be delighted to see you._

When they returned, the fort was not demolished, but all occupants had been evacuated as told. Sherlock was busy helping Clancy pluck pillow feathers out of Edgar's hair, so he did not notice their visitor at first. His head shot up, looking as though he were about to speak, but when he saw Mycroft his face clouded over with horror.

"Children, run! Quickly! Out the window if you must!"

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John, grabbing Clancy by the arm before he could carelessly follow through with the absurd order. "What did I say about allowing the kids to do death-defying stunts?"

"Really now, there's no need to overreact," said Mycroft sensibly. Sherlock scoffed disagreeably.

The rest of the children seemed at a loss of how to handle themselves. Strangers were rarely seen while in their sitter's company unless they were part of the police force. Nobody decided to speak until—

"Hi," said Annabeth, tugging on the new man's expensive pant leg. "Who are you, mister?"

Smiling, Mycroft bent down on one knee so that he was at eye-level.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes. I am Sherlock's big brother."

Her eyes lit up in excitement.

"Oh! So that makes you my future brother-in-law, right?"

Taking a deep breath, John willed himself to count to ten; anything keep from outright laughing at the girl's steadfast belief in her nonexistant betrothal. He was obviously failing, if Sherlock glaring out of the corner of his eye was any indication.

Initially, Mycroft looked perplexed by the declaration, but after reading both his brother and John's individual reactions, he caught on and was rightfully amused.

"If you and Sherlock have wedding plans, then yes, I suppose it does." He sent his brother a teasing grin. "Why didn't you tell me, dearest brother? Mummy will be so pleased to know you've found a suitable fiance."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously; a glare that enforced fear in many criminals' spines. "Just as pleased as she'd be to find out about that _little_ mishap you had in the summer of your junior year."

Mycroft coughed, indicating the subject was not to be brought up in front of company, and promising compliance if that bargain was kept. Pity, as John was actually curious now, perhaps his flatmate would take great pleasure in filling him in later.

"Anyway," Mycroft continued nonchalantly, "aren't you going to introduce me to your lot?"

"No," Sherlock barked, while simultaneously Barry greeted, "I'm Barry Garrick."

"Traitor," the detective whispered under his breath.

"Garrick. You wouldn't happen to be related to Roland Garrick, would you?"

"He's my dad," Barry nodded.

"Is he?" said Mycroft, appearing mildly interested. "So you must be the young Baron he speaks so highly of."

_"Baron?"_ Clancy repeated. Rosanna, Roberta, and Annabeth snickered.

"Hang on," the detective gracefully intercepted. "Are you tell me your father is a _politician?"_

"One of the finest in London," Mycroft confirmed. Barry beamed proudly. However, Sherlock was the only person who looked logically concerned.

"Oh my," he said in a hushed tone to John. "It's happening."

"What's happening?"

"Poor Baron, he was a great lad," Sherlock went on, shaking his head. "Before Mycroft got a hold of him. I partially blame you, John, partially myself. Mostly my parents."

"You do know you are being completely and idiotically dramatic," the doctor informed dryly. As usual, he was thoroughly ignored.

"Don't worry," Sherlock whispered to the unbothered babe resting in his arms. "I won't let him corrupt you, little Edmund."

"Edgar," John corrected.

"Either way."

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><p>Partially inspired by Troy &amp; Abed's pillow fort on the show <em>Community.<em> Hilarious.

Also, short. Did I mention short? Yes, it's short. Like I said, I swear to make up for it with the next chapter, which I also promise will not take as long. So review and remind me why I love this fandom and its fans so much(:


	4. Hectic Halloween

Candy? Pranks? Flesh in the fridge? Just another day at 221B Baker Street.

Ignore the fact that it's nowhere near October, just like I try to ignore the fact that I will never own anything as glorious as Sherlock Holmes. Meh.

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><p>"Lestrade," Sherlock greeted dryly. "To what do I owe the pleas—oh, to hell with politeness, it's a holiday. Why are you here?"<p>

"Nice to see you too, Sherlock." Lestrade promptly stepped inside. "Came to see if I you'd lend me a bit of phosphorus, since I know you run a regular chemical lab in the kitchen."

A slim eyebrow rose at the request. "And you need this substance why, exactly...?"

"Leslie asked, actually. Apparently you taught her the proper application amount, and she says it will be perfect to top off her homemade sonic screwdriver. She's going as _the Doctor_ this year."

Amusement flickered across the detective's features. "Entertaining choice," he acknowledged. "What about Henry?"

Lestrade couldn't restrain a smile, either. "The TARDIS."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth tugged up into a smirk. "Even better. Fine, if it's for Leslie's benefit, I shall fetch you some from my personal store. But don't expect me to always be so generous. The surrounding morgues and hospitals have been increasing security as of late, and Molly will only be susceptible to my charm for so long."

The inspector went to settle in the kitchen as Sherlock rummaged about for the chemical, taking note of the flat as he made the short trek.

Cobwebs in the corner, spiders creepily crawling up the webs, dust on the furniture...it certainly had all the trappings of a forbidden abode. Even a pile of grotesque, severed thumbs sitting in a plastic baggy on the table!

"Wow," Lestrade commented. "You blokes really spruced up the place."

"What the devil are you talking about? I don't waste my time decorating for needless holiday events, that's John's department," snapped Sherlock.

Lestrade paled. "Then, what's...?"

The detective's eyes lit up when he spotted the bag-o-thumbs.

"Oh! There's where my specimens were hiding! John, you can stop nagging now, I found the human remains! And clean the place up tomorrow, would you, it looks a fright! The fueding spiders, Godric, Helga, Rowena and Salazar have returned I see."

"...human remains?" repeated Lestrade meekly.

"Best to just let it go, Inspector," John advised knowingly, entering with a tray full of festive goodies. "Have one. Compliments of Mrs. Hudson."

Aghast promptly forgotten, the Inspector did as suggested and had a pumpkin-flavored pastry. Indeed, the tasty treat helped chase away the churn of disgust in his stomach.

Sweets really were the remedy for all earthly problems.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

"Who the devil is that?" Lestrade figured that after the incident last year, trick-or-treaters knew better than to ever approach 221B Baker Street's door anymore.

"Oh, probably some of the kids. Sherlock agreed to take them out tonight."

"More child-rearing? I hope you're at least being compensated for overtime."

"Anything to get him to celebrate a holiday is worth the effort," John deadpanned.

Having been here before enough to know that they might as well invite themselves in, a squeak of the door could be heard opening, followed by a resounded slam and a pair of zealous footsteps.

"Hey, Dr. Watson! Guess who I am!" cried Annabeth.

Obligingly, the doctor glanced over to observe the little girl's costume, and nearly dropped the tray of snacks in the process.

"Oh God, no," John choked. No, it was evidently too tough to resist. He felt something rupture in his stomach at how hard he proceeded to laugh.

Because there, standing in all her unabashed glory, was a replica of Sherlock Holmes. Same scarf, same coat—bloody hell, she even had the funny hat to boot!

"Sherlock—come here for minute, would you?" Speaking proved to be a challenge, as John still had trouble controlling his insatiable need to giggle like a mad school girl.

"Now what is it?" grumbled the detective, poking his head into the room. Almost immediately he spotted Annabeth hovering nearby, who waved cheerfully at her crush, oblivious to the look of surprise on his face.

"Mr. Holmes," John said formally, the temptation too great. "Meet Mr. Holmes."

For a pregnant pause, the detective simply resumed staring at his smaller double, unsure of how to take this new development. Then he saw the accessory adorning her head and his features quickly filled with annoyance.

"Who gave you that wretched hat?" Sherlock snarled. Nervously, Annabeth pointed in the direction of a certain inspector, who was unsuccessfully attempting to conceal his chuckle with a cough.

"I ought not to share my chemicals for that," he spat resentfully, yet handed Lestrade the vile anyway.

"Oh, it's just a bit of fun at your expense, Sherlock. I'd find it flattering, really," John consoled unconvincingly.

"Indeed?" Sherlock scoffed in disbelief. Suddenly the scowled melted off his face, leaving behind an unreadable expression of blankness. "Jolly good, then. Clancy, would you come with me for a moment?" Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed a hold of Annabeth's companion and started pulling him in the direction of the bedroom.

"Hey, wait, I need to change into my costume!" the boy protested.

"Yes, and I've got just the thing," Sherlock supplied firmly.

The two men and younger girl exchanged curious glances, eager to see what the detective was up to. Less than ten minutes later did their answer emerge, smug as ever, with a costumed Clancy in tow.

He was wearing a jumper a few sizes too large, a bowler hat, and wielding the squirt gun Sherlock usually used to spray at Anderson from the window whenever the officer was within shooting distance.

"Who's that supposed to be?" demanded John, arms crossed.

"How the tables have turned," Sherlock murmured gleefully. "Dr Watson, allow me to introduce: Dr. Watson."

"Pardon_ me?"_ the doctor exclaimed.

"Flattered now, are we?" Sherlock's smirk looked supremely self-satisfied, the sweetness of revenge having claimed his tongue. "Young Clancy originally intended to go as Captain America, but I convinced him otherwise."

"Bam, bam, bam!" yelled Clancy, firing off his fake gun, "Take that, you evil pawn! You're a horrible cabbie!"

"What's that about a cabbie?" Lestrade piqued inquisitively.

"Nothing, nothing at all!" John quickly changed the subject, "Listen! I think we've got another one."

True to his word, the door opened for a third time that evening, revealing the oldest of Sherlock's charges. Only like his companions, Barry wasn't donning his normal attire.

He gracefully entered the room, clothes styled in a three-piece suit set, hair slicked back into immaculate perfection, and leaning on an elegant umbrella.

"Hello, Barry. Who're are you dressed as?" Lestrade inquired.

"Is it not obvious?" Sherlock sniffed. "Evil incarnate."

"A mini-Mycroft," John translated. "Inconceivable and quite a bit frightening. Nice choice, Barry."

Barry beamed and twirled his umbrella for good show. "Thank you, Dr. Watson."

"Probably the only costume Sherlock actually fears. Should pop out from behind a few corners, give him a right good pranking this Halloween," the doctor continued, causing Lestrade to snicker.

Eyes narrowed, Sherlock retaliated, "Mini-Watson, go shoot Regular-Watson in the foot."

"Mini-Sherlock, go make somebody cry. That's how we know it's a real holiday," John retorted.

"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson called, sufficiently ending the altercation. "The twins have arrived!"

Both twins strode inside, though it was difficult to decide which was which—as it were, they were dressed identically, sporting short, red-colored wigs, and each held a similar stick of wood in their hands.

Sherlock burst out first with, "Who on earth are _you_ two supposed to be?"

"Fred," Roberta said as she pointed to her sister, just as Rosanna pointed at her and proclaimed, "George."

"Weasley, that is," they added simultaneously.

A stunned silence ensued. Before, after a minute or so of recovery, Barry, Annabeth, and Clancy began to applaud in awe.

"Now _that's_ a swell costume," Lestrade stated matter-of-factly.

"Ditto," agreed John.

"Established," Sherlock concurred.

* * *

><p>Well, that's the ending you get when I write it while watching the Harry Potter weekend. There's another HP reference in this chapter, and to whoever else spots it, cookies for you!<p>

Next time: Mummy Holmes is taken ill! While accompanying their mentor to the hospital, the twins learn more about the private man's past than they expected.


End file.
